Eldritch Enactment
Copyright© 2025 by Carlos Santiago
Chapter 34: Thresholds
Horror Sex Story: Chapter 34: Thresholds - After his father's passing in 1822, Silas Wolcott returns home to discover he has inherited a fortune beyond necessity. However, soon, he must uncover the secrets of his House and bloodline. From a seductive vampire to a university that wants knowledge, a tale of hubris, fear, and destruction unfolds.
Caution: This Horror Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma Coercion Consensual Hypnosis Mind Control Gay Heterosexual Fiction Historical Horror School Science Fiction Alternate History Paranormal non-anthro Vampires Anal Sex Cream Pie Squirting Voyeurism Geeks Halloween Royalty Transformation Violence
“I struck a bargain with the ancient things that surfaced ... The pact struck, my newfound accomplices slipped silently beneath the brackish water.”
— The Ancestor/Narrator (as portrayed by Wayne June), Darkest Dungeon, written by Chris Bourassa and Tyler Sigman, developed by Red Hook Studios. Directed by Chris Bourassa. Copyright © 2016 Red Hook Studios Inc. Originally released January 19, 2016.
The carriage ride to the small port town of Innsmouth, Massachusetts was not eventful, but the small municipality felt less of a constructed place, and more of an accumulation of buildings.
Silas had reports of this place being important to trade and something about a gold mine, but he did not see any of that prosperity in the land portion of the town.
The place smelled of the ocean mixed with feces. Silas Wolcott disliked the town immediately.
Dean Ashcombe adored it.
“This is magnificent.”
“It is falling apart,” Silas commented
“I suppose this leads to me being more correct than you. I do apologize for that, but this trip might be cut short.”
Silas sighed in mild defeat. Nothing had been proven one way or another, but the sight of such absence was not a good sign for Silas’s hopes.
There was a peculiar silence to the area, which indicated to Silas that he should not give up though. After all, he had been to places with few people before. There were always signs of life and commerce. If there was none, either everyone was dead and gone, or else ... hopefully ... hiding.
By the time they were in the town center, the millionaire and the Dean saw that people moved through the streets. Conversations were muted. This was a good sign by Silas’s measure. Faces watched from windows as figures lingered in doorways.
Silas observed before going to his notes to confirm. Many of the populace bore the curious appearance described in the records with large eyes, broad mouths, and strangely waxen skin.
They were not so asymmetrical or outside of the norm to be called monstrous, but after seeing visions of the future, knowing a vampire, and talking with the Horror, Silas believed he could recognize the supernatural when it became clear.
An unease clawed in Silas’s heart and throat, no matter how excited he wanted to be.
They were not sure of where to go, so the two of them started talking to the locals, but only after ensuring that the driver of their carriage had two loaded pistols and the horses ready to leave should events take a turn for the worse.
By late afternoon they had acquired directions to an aging structure overlooking the harbor. The building supposedly served as a meeting place for something called the Esoteric Order of Dagon.
Silas believed this must have been some archaic faith, but the name Dagon felt to align with the Eldritch, so that was enough to keep pursuing such a clue.
Neither man remarked upon the irony that the townsfolk offered these directions with complete openness. If this was some forbidden knowledge they were obtaining, it should not have been handed out so freely.
Had secrecy become unnecessary in this place?
They knocked a few times on the wooden door. When there was no answer, they tried the handle and found it to be unlocked.
Within the hall they found a single occupant waiting.
The figure sat beside a lantern whose pale glow illuminated only fragments of his form.
For all Silas could tell, the man appeared elderly. The distinction between what was true and what something (or someone) seemed like was important to Silas after discovering greater truths.
Regardless of what Silas thought or knew, his (as well as Ashcombe’s) eyes widened, for they both realized that this man’s hands possessed a subtle webbing between the fingers that was greater than the norm, his neck had faint ridges on them, and his eyes were more bulbous than anyone else’s eyes.
The man regarded them with calm curiosity.
“Welcome,” the man said jovially. “You have traveled far.”
His voice, though it sounded human, was eerily alien with a vocal pattern that sounded like multiple speakers overlapping.
Ashcombe stepped forward first.
“Who are you?”
“I suppose, Theophilus, the real question is: who are you?”
The query caught Ashcombe aback, especially with how the stranger said his name.
“We are seekers of knowledge.”
The old figure smiled.
“While I do find this to be both a truth and a lie, looking for knowledge can be a dangerous habit.”
Silas and Theophilus did not know what to do with such a statement. In that stunned silence, the old man gestured toward nearby chairs.
“Please.”
Neither visitor sat because they did not know him or his intent.
The figure laughed softly. “Relax, gentlemen.”
“If we intended harm, you would never have reached this room.”
That was what Silas had thought before coming to the small fishing town, and that this stranger voiced it made him feel vindicated.
Silas sat first. When nothing bad happened, Ashcombe sat in another empty chair.
The old man studied them carefully.
Particularly Silas.
“You carry unusual burdens.”
Ashcombe stiffened.
“What do you mean?”
“We know who you are, Theophilus Ashcombe and Silas Wolcott,” the man said. “We know that you are trying to pierce the veil of knowledge to beings infinitely greater than us. We know of your school. We know of the blood you use. We also know that you were chosen to wear the crown, Heir Wolcott.”
The old man’s gaze remained fixed upon Silas.
Ashcombe’s expression hardened at the statements...
The old man smiled back at the Dean.
“You need not be alarmed. We are not your allies, but we are not your enemies, either.”
“That remains to be seen. Does it not?” Ashcombe asked.
“As I said, if we wanted to hurt you, we would have. We only wish to exchange information.”
“I suppose that depends entirely upon what you know,” Ashcombe said.
The response amused their host.
“If you two were any other people, I might find that disrespectful, but given what I know of you both and your exploits, it is a reasonable answer.”
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully and brought his webbed hands closer together.
“We are of the order of Dagon and servants of a servant of the Highest Being, and as such, we know many things.”
Silas exchanged a glance with Ashcombe.
“We know what sleeps beneath your house, we know why the prison exists, and we know why it fears the crown.”
The lantern flickered, making the room brush in and out of darkness. For the tiniest instant, Silas could see a cephalopod mixed with crustacean of a shadow at the old man’s back, which caused the wealthy man to flinch.
Outside, waves crashed against stone.
The old man folded his hands.
“Did you bring the holy artifact?”
Silas reached into his jacket and revealed the crown slowly. The black metal absorbed illumination rather than reflect it, and from that consumption, a certain chill washed over the room.
For the first time, the old man’s composure faltered in a fearful recognition of what he saw.
“Remarkable. This piece has known the powers of gods,” the old man breathed.
Silas feared that the man would break and fall to his knees in tears. Reverence was the thought that came to the mind of the Wolcott man, for he had only seen comparable behavior when witnessing a divorcée at church when a preacher had been especially passionate at the pulpit.
Only ... in this scenario, Silas had not done or said anything other than reveal the diadem.
“May I?” the old man asked, wishing to inspect the artifact.
Silas looked at him without certainty.
“I will return it momentarily. You have my word,” the old man vowed.
With a promise given, Silas handed over the prize. For several minutes, which were both relaxing at the man’s meticulousness and terrifying because Silas was parted from the piece, he examined the artifact.
His long fingers traced ancient runes carved along the inner band. There were runes within, Silas knew, but he had no gift for translating them, and the work at Dreibruch had been medicinal and engineering, not that of language.
At last he spoke.
“The markings are new and ancient; such majestical contradiction is only possible through the divine mind.”
Neither Silas nor Ashcombe said anything, but they did not interrupt the man at his work.
“They are older than our order, and so must have been ordained by the Lurker at the Threshold.”
“What does it say?” Silas found himself asking.
Age had not made the man cryptic. He turned the circlet and pointed toward a sequence of symbols.
“This section speaks of inheritance of mortal blood while the next references authority over existence.”
He kept turning the crown to the next section. Though he was pointing at one or two markings, he seemed confident.
“This ... names a gate, stating that the wearer becomes both key and lock.”
Neither Silas nor Ashcombe spoke once again, waiting for this man to continue.
The old man continued.
“The prison remains sealed because the heir exists.”
Silas felt an unpleasant chill. He had suspected something similar to this based on what he knew of the Horror.
“And if the heir dies?” Silas wondered
The old man’s eyes reflected lantern-light.
“Then the prison becomes vulnerable, and the prisoner should be vulnerable. The words makes quite clear that the heir’s existence is important.”
The answer settled heavily over the room as he handed back the crown to Silas. The old man neither seemed pleased or disappointed in himself for his translation.
“You have seen futures?” he asked
Silas nodded slowly. “I have.”
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